Long Night
by BrokenOcean
Summary: After Reichenbach falls. Just a little window into John's grief. Spoilers.


Disclaimer: Don't own anything from BBC Sherlock. All the characters and quotes are from said show and belong to the beautifully talented Steven Moffat and Mark Gatis

Author's Note: So this is my first ever Sherlock fanfic, and normally I wouldn't have even dared to do anything in this universe, but this little thing just wouldn't leave me alone. So I hope you enjoy it.

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><p>John sat in bed. It was late, and he was tired. <em>So tired<em>. But he couldn't sleep. He sighed and got up. Wandered to the kitchen to look for something to eat. Perhaps a full stomach would help him sleep. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. Certainly not since the day he'd spoken to Sherlock's...

He shook his head as if that would rid him of the thought. It didn't. He opened the fridge, but there was nothing inside. Right. He hadn't been to the store since. He hadn't been anywhere in...how long? Days? Weeks? It didn't matter. He rummaged through the cupboards, but there wasn't much. Maybe he'd go out to get something in the morning. But probably not. He sighed and, since he checked everywhere else, he opened the oven. Nothing. The microwave? Noth- a jar. He reached in to take it out. His eyes widened as he saw what it was. Before his mind even registered what his body was doing, the jar was sailing through the air. Through the doorway and shattering against the far wall. John was suddenly angry. _Furious_. He grabbed things from the counters and through them too. Everything. Everything was thrown and broken and smashed. The toaster narrowly missed the window and instead crashed into the wall before falling onto the desk. The chairs were toppled over. And then, just as fast as the fury had scorched his veins, it was gone. Gone so fast he swayed and collapsed to his knees, trying to bear the crippling weight of the pain. His eyes found the shattered remains of the jar, and he felt tears burn his eyes. How? How was it fair that Sherlock was gone, but his _fucking experiment_ was still here? It wasn't. It wasn't fair and it hurt so much.

He pressed his hands to his mouth to smother any sounds that might try to break free, and he slowly – shakily – got to his feet. He took in the destruction around him and tried to navigate a way through the wreckage to the room beyond. He got the broom and dustpan and went back to the kitchen. He cleaned up the glass from the floor and put it in the garbage. He went over to the toaster and picked it up to see if it was salvageable. As he did though, a candle that it had landed on rolled away and dropped onto the floor.

"_...perhaps for your date?"_

"_I'm not his date."_

"_You might as well be. Eat something."_

"_I'll bring a candle. Nice and romantic."_

"_I'm NOT his date."_

John almost threw the toaster again as the memory sank back into his mind, but stopped as he remembered the awkward turn the conversation had taken after he'd asked Sherlock if he was dating anyone. He chuckled and held onto the toaster a little tighter. He brought it back to the kitchen and set it on the counter. It was dented, but still usable. He righted the chair and leaned against the counter, needing its support for a moment as he tried to beat his emotions back down. Back into that numb he'd been in since he'd gone to Sherlock's...grave. He shook his head. How stupid. Begging a grave to give him his best friend back. He could only imagine what Sherlock would have said had he known.

"_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."_ Sherlock's voice sounded in his head. John rolled his eyes. Yes, Sherlock. He knew. He rubbed his chest, but the pain was still there. What he'd said to Sherlock at his grave echoed dully in his head.

"_You...you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this; you were the best man, the most human...human being that I have ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so...there. ...I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle. Sherlock, for me. Don't be...dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop...just stop this..."_

He knew it was stupid. He knew Sherlock wasn't coming back. John's throat burned as he tried to keep in a sob. But _God_ if he didn't beg for that every day. He wanted it so badly. He needed it more than he'd ever needed anything before. He needed Sherlock _back_. He stumbled back to his room. He passed the telly _"Of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turnups on his jeans!"_ He passed the wall, where he'd spent so long the past few days just running his hand over the bullet holes where Sherlock had attempted to alleviate his boredom were. He slammed the door to his bedroom shut, but couldn't keep the memories from rushing back to him.

He collapsed on the bed, and the pillows he'd taken from Sherlock's room because they still smelled like him. He looked out the window when it started to rain. But the falling drops only made him remember Sherlock's fall and _please god not again_. He didn't want to see that again. He turned over, turning his back on the rain. He brought Sherlock's pillow to himself and curled around it.

"_You flirted with Sherlock?" _

"_Are you jealous?"_

"_We're not a couple."_

"_Yes you are."_

Yes they were. Or at least, he wanted them to be.

"_...often seen in the company of confirmed bachelor, John Watson..."_

"_I'm not gay."_

And he still didn't think he was. But, as time went on, he learned that it wasn't important. Because it wasn't a matter of preferring women to men, or men to women. It was simply a matter of preferring Sherlock to everyone else.

"_I don't have friends."_

The sobs were harder to keep down, and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep them down for long. But he held on as stubbornly as he could. He tried not to think about what Sherlock would have thought of John crying over him.

"_I have one."_

He pushed his face into the pillow as he lost the battle. He cried out his loneliness and breathed in Sherlock. Sally had been so sure – everyone had been so sure – that John made a mistake when he trusted Sherlock. They looked at him strangely when he defended Sherlock – his friend. But that didn't matter to John. Because Sherlock was his friend...and...if he'd had a bit more time maybe he could have turned that friendship into something more. He could have thought of a way to show Sherlock that despite his low opinion of 'caring' that it, like friends, could have an exception in John. Love could have found an exception in John,

"_No one could be that clever."_

"_You could."_

God, why? Why did Sherlock leave him like this? Alone again. Why couldn't he have taken John too? He would have gone with him. In a second he would have gone.

"_Coming?"_

"_God, yes."_

He was alone before, but even that emptiness was nothing compared to this. Before he knew what Sherlock was like. Before he knew what love was really like. John was stealing breaths and forcing them back out between his sobs so fast that he was hardly breathing at all. An old saying drifted unwanted into his head, "It's better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all." John sobbed his agony into the pillow. Liars. Those fucking liars. It wasn't true. Surely it wasn't true. There's a lot to be said for ignorance being bliss, and this _hurt_. This hurt so _much_. How was this better?

He lay there all night with memories coming back and him helpless to stop it. They continued past when his tears stopped, past when his throat grew raw, past when he threw the pillow across the room, then lurched out of bed to get it again, bringing it back and finding the same position as before.

The rain eased, then stopped all together.

"_Goodbye, John."_

His eyes shot open, and his breath snagged. The words were so real to his tired mind and hurting heart that he could have sworn it was Sherlock behind him and he spoke so quickly he stumbled over the words, "Don't go."

"_Goodbye John."_

"Please...come back. Come back to me." John choked out, reaching a hand behind him to grab Sherlock's jacket, or scarf, or sleeve or _something_...but grabbed air instead. He turned his head to try and catch him before he left, but there wasn't anyone there. His door was closed. The words he'd thought were from his lost friend were just from his cruel mind betraying his ears and wounding his aching heart. The warmth on his back that he'd desperately believed was from Sherlock's body was just from the rising sun.

He looked into the light of the thing that had tricked him so painfully and closed his eyes; tears once again sliding down his face as he whispered, "Come home."


End file.
